The Rules That Matter
by Knyle Borealis
Summary: By normal standards, Sherlock Holmes is a terrible driver. According to his logic, speed limits and traffic signs should only apply to those who aren't skilled enough to handle a vehicle. John doesn't care what the detective's justification is; he just wants to slow down...
1. Rules of the Road

**I don't believe it. I've..._finished_ something. It's _done_. I don't know what to do now...**

**The usual disclaimer: the characters aren't mine! **

**Enjoy!**

** ~Knyle B.**

* * *

John had never realized just how rolling the countryside was in the east. Granted, he'd never gone over it at quite his current speed. Perhaps what felt like an eye-watering roller coaster at the moment was actually quite comfortable at a more sedate pace.

Seeking to convince himself, he peered at the blur of green and blue outside the window. The winding country lane that had become their "shortcut" _seemed_ perfectly idyllic. Whatever form of it was whirring by in front of him made him slightly woozy to stare at, though.

The doctor closed his eyes and shook his head. If his heart wasn't trying to beat its way out of his chest, he might have enjoyed looking at the scenery instead of holding onto the side handle for dear life. As it was, it was all going by too fast to really take in.

He lurched into the door as the vehicle navigated a turn at suicidal speed and flinched inwardly at the spike of soreness that ran up his arm. In the past hour, he'd been thrown about in his seat so much that the curves of the car's interior had started to leave indents on his skin. With a sort of weary determination to find a silver lining, he reminded himself that at least his current situation was a novel experience. He'd never gotten bruises from being too familiar with an armrest before.

Then the car went over a pothole, an event which at normal speed would _not_ have bashed his head against the roof, and John's patience evaporated. Looking over at the decidedly immobile and well-ordered idiot in the driver's seat, he gritted, "You do realize that we're on our way to see a bunch of _policemen_, right? Homicide detectives can still arrest you for driving like a maniac."

A scornful huff met his criticism. Sherlock rolled his eyes disdainfully as he yanked the wheel about for another turn, throwing John towards the middle of the car this time. "Traffic laws exist to excuse people who can't drive at their vehicle's full capacity. I am an _excellent_ driver, so I don't need to follow them. If Lestrade and his minions think I'm going to waste time submitting to useless guidelines, then they've surpassed even their usual idiocy."

"You wouldn't know anything about that, naturally," John deadpanned under his breath as he painfully picked himself up off the clutch, rubbing his ribs and wincing. "Rain main."

Ignoring the whisper and the blue-eyed glare accompanying it, Sherlock gestured carelessly to the world blurring by their windows. "Naturally they would make laws prejudiced against those capable of traveling with more speed and dexterity than the herd." His next maneuver slammed John into the window. "It's no fault of mine that the plebian masses lack the skills to drive efficiently."

John decided not to acknowledge that outrageous statement. Bedraggled and sore, he levered himself upright and tucked himself as far back into his seat as he could go, hoping the molded padding would help keep him from lurching into a hard object every time Sherlock turned the wheel. His stomach was fastidiously tying itself into knots. They ached more with each jarring imperfection in the gravel underneath them.

With half-hearted optimism, his eyes sought out the odometer, hoping that reality wasn't as bad as the scenario he pictured in his head. What he saw on the dial made his stomach drop. Reality _wasn't_ as bad as he'd thought. John closed his eyes, struggling for calm. It was much, _much_ worse. Swallowing his panic at the thought of what might happen should Sherlock turn his eyes from the road for even a moment, he chose to focus on the fact that his day of firsts had continued. The speed threshold they'd just crossed was something he'd never experienced before outside an airborne vehicle.

He had already prodded his flatmate to drive slower a hundred times that morning, with no result. Well, the lecture might count, but not in a good way. At least his wheedling had convinced Sherlock to wear his seat belt. Not that it would matter much who was buckled in if they crashed at the rate they were going.

Shaking his head, John quietly resolved to use whatever means necessary to keep Sherlock from driving in the future but told himself to wait until later to act on it. As inviting as the idea was, he was not going to wrest the wheel away from his friend while they were moving—especially not while they were moving like _that_.

"Do you suppose you could at least stay within thirty kilometers of the speed limit?" he suggested, careful not to bite his tongue.

Sherlock snorted in derision at the thought, and John got the distinct impression that the car had sped up a little. He wilted slightly, praying that no livestock were wandering the road and rubbing his palms uneasily over the tops of his thighs. His fingers discovered an anomaly by his knee; he blinked his eyes open and scowled down at the new hole in his jeans. Evidently, one of his Sherlock-induced body slams had incited the car to seek revenge.

Motion in the corner of his eye brought his head snapping up. The consulting detective had taken a hand off the wheel, fishing in his pocket for his phone. John saw the mobile a moment before Sherlock could look down to start texting. He snatched it away. "Oh, no you don't."

"John…" Sherlock turned to glower at him, murder in his eyes. The movement pulled his hands slightly to the side, and the car embarked on the beginning of a violent swerve.

"Eyes on the road, Sherlock!" John yelped, grabbing the wheel and wrenching them back into the center with a wild spattering of gravel.

Giving him a muted grimace, the detective faced forward, pouting out the windshield. "John, I need my phone," he grumbled, throwing them around a startled goose.

"Not on the bloody road, you don't," John corrected him, stashing the mobile in his pocket. "If you want to drive like this, that's all you're going to do."

"But there's so much to be done!" the detective objected plaintively. Thankfully, he could complain without taking his eyes away from his task. "The fire escapes of the warehouse…"

"Will still be there once we reach Lestrade at the rendezvous," John told him firmly. Having to brace himself against the dashboard while he said it had no effect on the finality of his tone.

His suggestion meant waiting. Sherlock _hated_ waiting. At the implication of a delay, the car started to inch forward at an even faster pace. "But _John_—"

The blond man set his jaw. "_Slow down_, Sherlock, or so help me, I will pour ethanol in every disgusting thing you have brewing in the kitchen as soon as we get home."

Normally, Sherlock would scoff at such an empty threat, but something in the other man's quiet, even tone made him pause. A brief look at John's face quelled his remaining skepticism. The level blue glare that accompanied the order was enough to pull his foot back off the accelerator. The car lost speed, and immediately, the passing scenery grew slightly more recognizable.

"Thank you." John smiled and settled back in his seat. He didn't use his "captain" voice very often, but it was nice to know that it had kept its effect.

His gratitude only seemed to irritate his flatmate. Scowling out the windshield, Sherlock grumbled, "I hate driving myself."

Before the doctor could get out the biting comment on his tongue, he was frozen by a second of panic. Two silver irises had flashed towards him speculatively; it looked as though Sherlock was about to say something. "Road," John reminded his flatmate, sounding half-strangled. "The road, Sherlock."

"What? Oh, yes, fine." Cut off from whatever he was going to say, Sherlock absently diverted his focus back to the task of keeping them alive.

He stiffened suddenly, and John automatically grabbed for handholds as the car lurched. The lone cow in the middle of the road watched bewilderedly as they skidded by in a cloud of dust and locking tires. Luckily, the herd wasn't crossing along with it. Once they were clear, Sherlock shifted gears and got them back on course, and John relaxed enough to examine his new bruises with one hand. He'd never pitied farm animals more than he did the ones near Sherlock that day.

Slightly breathless, said brown-haired nutter continued blithely, "You could drive."

John cast his eyes heavenward. "We've already established that I don't have a permit."

Sherlock's silence was eloquent: _And?_

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Sherlock," he ground out, rubbing his eyes. "If you want to keep getting invited to crime scenes, _one_ of us has to stay on Lestrade's good side."

"He'd never know," Sherlock argued, suddenly hitting at least twice as many potholes as before in a _subtle_ attempt to make his proposition more inviting. "Besides, you're obviously dissatisfied with my efforts. Since it's your fault that we're not on a train right now anyway, you may as well make up for it by driving."

John straightened, aghast. "_My_ fault?"

"If you hadn't been so slow paying the cabbie, we'd have made the train."

"_What_?" John snapped, turning to glare at the sharp profile suddenly very studiously watching the road. "The train was already out of the station by the time the cab pulled up to Baker Street this morning, you twat! If _you_ hadn't wasted so much time swanning about in the kitchen—Wait, no, I'm not doing this." Snapping his mouth shut, the doctor pretended to stare out the window.

Sherlock let out a rather pointed sigh and narrowly avoided wiping out a roadside flowerbed. He didn't say anything more for several minutes; John recognized the onset of a sulk. Resigning himself to another hour of nerve-shredding, grumpily silent wildlife endangerment, John let his head fall back into his headrest and focused on regulating his breathing.

* * *

**Well, that was incredibly satisfying. **

**Of course, I've been fighting a war with flesh-eating plot bunnies (I'm talking first cousins of the Monty Python fella, here) for months on my other stories, and this one came out in three days. Oy...**

**Anyhoo, I hope you like! Please let me know what you think.**

**One more coming...**


	2. The (Off)Road Rules

**The final piece. Sherlock gets a little taste of his own medicine, although John's too nice to rub it in. Unlike our dear detective... :)**

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There wasn't much time for I-told-you-so's as they scarpered from the warehouse, but Sherlock managed somehow. As bullets clanged off the metal of the machinery around them, John was forced to endure the detective's smug grin as every extrapolation he'd made about the gunrunners and their security measures proved true.

His vindication was undercut somewhat, John thought darkly, by the fact that he had failed to predict the warehouse would be full of very ornery criminals to replace the security he and Sherlock had disabled when they snuck in before the police.

The two of them had been snooping about in the first floor offices while Lestrade and the rest of the police publically secured the front area down below. John hadn't planned on letting them get separated from the group, but once Sherlock went haring off, he didn't realize he was automatically following him until there was a maze of hallways and workshops behind them. Only then, of course, did the gang they were investigating show up right between them and the majority of the force.

The first shots behind them made them both jump. Even as he was starting, though, John's hand went unerringly to the gun tucked into the back of his waistband. Probably not the best idea to have it around a bunch of law enforcement officers, but he'd learned to value preparation over social prudence.

Cocking the weapon and looking over at Sherlock, who had only half-straightened up from his perusal of a filing cabinet, the ex-soldier remarked blandly, "I should have reminded you to look up those fire escapes before we came in."

A brief smile tugged up the corners of Sherlock's mouth. Holding up the phone that John had thought was still in his pocket, he divulged, "I checked as you were standing around, wasting time on pleasantries with Geoff."

The gun dropped infinitesimally as John sighed. "It's Greg, Sherlock. I was stopping to make sure that it was safe for us to go inside, and his name is Greg. You've known him longer than you've known me; why hasn't that stuck yet?"

Sherlock's shoulder bobbed indifferently. "I delete useless information. You might say it's a miracle that I haven't gotten rid of the entire force.

Stooping gracefully, he stashed all the papers he'd been rifling through exactly back into their places and then swept out of the room, John covering their rear as he trailed after him. He smirked in spite himself at his flatmate's comment, but a slight twinge in his conscience prompted him to smother the giggle that accompanied the expression.

Scanning the vicinity for danger, he murmured chidingly over his shoulder, "They actually manage to do their jobs without you a majority of the time, you know. Not _so_ useless."

Bullets suddenly erupted from behind them as the gunrunners realized that there were more intruders on their other side. Hugging the wall while John slipped behind a protruding duct, Sherlock prodded, "John, who told you it was safe to come in here?"

John was silent while he returned fire, covering Sherlock while they backed up to an intersection and ducked down a side hallway. A bullet ricocheted just over his head; with a muffled curse, he dove through the doorway Sherlock had entered and rolled over just in time to see the detective slam the metal barrier into place and throw the bar down.

Picking himself up off the floor, the ex-soldier shook his head helplessly. "Nope. I have absolutely nothing to defend them with right now."

The door was beginning to rattle with the pounding of heavy fists. Sliding a chair under the handle, John trained his gun on it and backed away, following the sound of Sherlock's chuckle out another door and into yet another dingy hallway. The only difference between it and the hundreds of others they'd been through was the lighting.

John exhaled in relief and slammed the door behind him. Windows. They'd reached the outside of the monstrous building. Wheeling around, he flew after Sherlock towards the nearest exit. Shouts echoed out from a hallway that linked up to their path. It was mere feet behind the door to the fire escape. It would be very, very unfortunate if their attackers made it around the corner before they reached the threshold.

The flatmates put on an extra burst of speed as the first goon emerged from the corridor ahead of them. Sherlock reached the heavy metal door just in time to throw it open in the gunman's face. The man's forehead was no match for the blow; he fell flat, stunned. Somehow, the propulsion of his fall dislodged the key ring from his belt. It twinkled dully from the middle of the hallway. On impulse, John snatched the keys up as he ran past, slipping through the door hot on Sherlock's heels.

They sprinted down the stairs and out into the parking lot, blinking in the harsh sunlight. The back lot of the warehouse was just as gigantic as the building it served. Worn asphalt stretched out in both directions, bordered on the far side by a row of low buildings and peppered in the interim with vehicles, crates, shacks, and other detritus.

John fiddled with the keys in his hand thoughtfully. A gleam of black metal had caught his eye as he descended after Sherlock and a different escape option occurred to him. There was a key fab on the ring, and the logo matched the one on the bumper of the car he'd seen. If the two were a set… Worried that it was too good to be true, he pressed the unlock button.

Lights flashed ahead. Grinning, John grabbed his friend's arm and yanked him towards them. The fire escape burst open behind them as he shoved Sherlock towards the front of the car—a jeep—which helpfully got him farther behind the shed that it was parked behind. "Circle around and get in," he ordered, firing off a few rounds to stop the criminals' advance. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "and wear your seat belt."

Sherlock started moving, sending him a partially disbelieving, mostly curious look. Rounding the vehicle at incredible speed and yet still making his every move look leisurely, he clambered into the passenger side and watched John jump in beside him.

"You're going to drive."

"Looks that way," John agreed curtly, shoving the keys into the ignition.

Leaning back into his seat with a degree of nonchalance that the doctor thought was inappropriate considering their situation, the detective grinned and reached for his seat belt. "Without a permit, doctor? You should be ashamed."

The engine growled as bullets smashed the rear windows on John's side of the car. "Extenuating circumstances," he snapped, throwing the car into gear and gunning it. "Get down!"

Rubber shrieked against the pavement; the jeep curled around the shed and sprang forward with a growl as Sherlock obeyed. John kept the warehouse and its occupants on the driver's side of the vehicle, shielding the detective as best he could with the meager distance the car's spacing provided. They went blowing by the gathered gunmen at full throttle, ducking the bullets spearing through their windows and tearing towards the edge of the parking lot.

A few of the men were inspired to run for their own cars. They'd be after them shortly. John frowned. Dropping the gun in his hunching flatmate's lap, he pulled out a spare magazine and tossed it over as well. "Reload, please."

Sherlock bent his head to the task without a word. Once done, he placed the gun back into John's waiting hand, and the soldier quickly went to work. Unmindful of the bullets spraying around him, John pivoted in his seat and shot out the tires of the three nearest cars. As he watched them spin out or roll to a defeated stop, a minor prickle crept up the back of Sherlock's neck. That always happened when he witnessed his friend slip back into his old habits. John didn't become so businesslike very often, but every time he did, the cynical detective was impressed.

The doctor's sharpshooting left four vehicles to give chase, all of them smaller than the jeep. Returning his interest to the interior of their transport, Sherlock brushed glass off himself and straightened up somewhat. He found himself staring sideways instead of back, intrigued by his flatmate's command of the vehicle.

After he'd handed the gun to the taller man for safekeeping, John barely looked down to see where to put his hands in the unfamiliar machine. Evidently there was little difference between a civilian jeep and the military-issue ones that John had piloted despite his lack of legal authorization. His surety at the wheel left little doubt that he'd driven quite a lot while in the army.

Which brought up the question of _where_ he had driven while in the army. The parking lot they were currently barreling across was not infinite, and judging by what he knew of Afghanistan, Sherlock doubted that John had much experience handling the narrow, twisting roads of the English countryside. Concerned, he was about to broach the subject when a fresh hail of bullets forced him to tuck himself partially beneath the dashboard to avoid being perforated.

John sniggered at the undignified contortion, enjoying Sherlock's disgruntled expression in the corner of his eye as he spun the wheel and sent the jeep around the corner of a building. The sound of lanky limbs colliding with the door during the turn was far more satisfying than it should have been, a little voice reprimanded him. Then his bruises made him flinch while he twisted to look behind them, and the blond decided that his conscience could stand treating his flatmate to a little forced empathy.

They had rounded the main building by then, out of their pursuers' firing lines. Sherlock took advantage of the warehouse's shelter to sit up and look around. John was accelerating again, but the detective couldn't fathom why. Lestrade and the police were still cut off the wing of the enormous facility that jutted out in front of them, and there was no road around to the front, so where…? His eyes widened slightly as the end of the pavement neared, watching the culvert and the rough terrain beyond it approach rapidly.

"John," he started, a tad uneasily, "there's no road."

"I'd need a permit for that," the doctor answered shortly, giving him a tight grin.

There wasn't any time to reply. The front wheels hit the raised edge of the lot and went airborne, the jeep sailing over the culvert. They smashed into the other side at full throttle and shot up the hill, unsuccessfully followed by two of the cars behind them. Those that didn't crash kept coming.

Catching sight of them in the rear view mirror, John muttered something unrecognizable under his breath. He cranked the wheel, and they jolted to the side between two hills. The jeep bucked and jostled as it roared over the grass, throwing both of its occupants this way and that as it responded to John's efforts. Sherlock didn't envy the fools in the less-durable sedans behind them.

The detective held onto the overhead handle for dear life as they threaded through a rock outcropping. Screeching—both human and automotive—nearly drowned out the sound of a shredding tires behind them. Risking a glance back to see the carnage, Sherlock gasped and dropped low as yet another volley of ammunition was spent on their transport. The last car wasn't giving up.

John switched back to comprehensible English, cursing and yanking them through a few tight turns and launching them over a narrow ravine. Sherlock tried to keep his head from hitting the roof too hard and was grateful for his seatbelt when a particularly sharp curve sent him lurching halfway out the window before it locked and retrieved him. The jeep was holding up incredibly well under the onslaught, he noted abstractedly, with the exception of the windows. Next time he saw Mycroft, he'd tell him to switch over.

A few hills separated them from their last remaining pursuer, finally allowing them to sit fully straight in their seats. John didn't look away from the terrain, still guiding them over it at high speeds, but after gunfire the quiet was almost deafening. Sherlock shook glass from his hair, grimacing at a few shallow cuts on his scalp.

An engine rumbled somewhere behind them again. Listening to his flatmate groan, John commented, "Whatever you took, they definitely want it back."

Sherlock didn't bother asking how his friend knew about the small object tucked carefully into his pocket. A full complement of armed men had abandoned a skirmish with the police to go after them once their presence in the offices was discovered. Even Lestrade would have found the overreaction a bit telling.

"Yes, well, when leaders of very dangerous cartels try hiding things in the air ducts of their offices, it usually indicates importance," he drawled, his casual tone belied by the white-knuckle grip he had on the handholds closest to him.

John laughed and sent them hurtling around a copse of trees. "How did you get into the air ducts without me noticing?"

There was a beat of outright cacophony as the jeep skidded down a gravel slope and scraped alongside another outcropping. John shook his head, saving Sherlock from having to reply whilst his long limbs were being slammed against his seat's inner armrest.

"Never mind. Just make sure to get it to Lestrade when you're done with it, Sherlock, because I am _not_ getting chased by the police for withholding evidence after going through all this getting it."

Behind them, the final car failed to overcome the last hill that John had sent them over, slipping sideways on the loose shale before spinning down and out of sight. A faint crash registered as its front end buried itself in the next hill over. The airbags knocked the occupants unconscious while some distance away John assumed—correctly—that the chase had come to an end. He lightened his pressure on the gas pedal and started steering them towards flatter ground.

Sherlock was silent. Looking over at the very still figure sitting beside him, John felt a flicker of concern. It was all but eradicated by a sense of justification that rose up immediately after.

_Turnabout's fair play_, he thought wolfishly, taking in Sherlock's tousled hair, rumpled clothing, and slightly shell-shocked expression. His friend looked exactly how he'd felt on the trip out to the factory—and on several other occasions besides. Living with a Holmes put him in that condition fairly often, he realized.

Still, it wasn't like Sherlock could help being Sherlock. _Some of the time_. Not unkindly, John pointed the wheels toward a road he saw in the distance and motioned towards the floor by Sherlock's feet. "The gun will have to go before we get back to Lestrade, and we should probably switch places."

_If you're up to it_, he finished silently, knowing better than to insult the detective by suggesting he might be the worse for wear.

Nodding jerkily, Sherlock bent and scooped the weapon up off the floor where it had fallen, handing it over and watching as it was secreted away in its usual place. The disappearance of the firearm seemed to awaken him somewhat. His eyes flickered, and then there was a flurry of motion as his hands flew to straighten his clothes and ruffle his curls back into their usual perfect disarray. Back to his usual remote self, he turned to look out the window.

Silence again. Was the amazing prat still stroppy about the trip up? John repressed a sigh and refocused on driving. Part of the vexed atmosphere came from him, he acknowledged. The few pieces inside of him that weren't giddy over the adrenaline rush, excited about the case, or concerned about the people involved in the fiasco they'd just survived were a bit annoyed at Sherlock's rapid recovery. For all the effort it took to rattle his flatmate, the results didn't last nearly as long as he'd like them to.

_Shouldn't be upset that he's actually acting healthy_, he reprimanded himself guiltily. Sherlock had a habit of testing John's limits, but he knew that the doctor bounced back quickly. They _both_ rebounded remarkably well, John conceded.

He was just forced to do it more often, whispered his doubts, summoning up a projection of the drive home. John swallowed a miserable groan over his fate. The potholes…

"Traffic laws are more important than permits."

John stilled and forgot his apprehension, glancing over at his friend. All he saw was the back of a curly brown head. He smiled. The detective didn't explain the non sequitur. Sherlock would never admit that his rule breaking was less acceptable than John's—not in plain terms. He didn't need to. Taking the backwards apology for what it was—a rare compliment—John gave a low hum of agreement and guided them onto the road, grinning unabashedly.

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**Wow. I didn't actually think this would ever happen to me. I'm hitting the "complete" button on my story manager... *tears of joy***

**To quote my fellow authors, "Reviews are Love!"**

**No matter what you have to say, I would love to hear from you.**

**Thank you so much for reading.**

** ~Knyle B.**


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